Accelerando (66 page)

“There are different kinds of death,” the woman called Pamela tells Manni, her bone-dry voice a whisper in the darkness. Manni tries to move, but he seems to be trapped in a confined space; for a moment he begins to panic, but then he works it out. “First and most importantly, death is just the absence of life—oh, and for human beings, the absence of consciousness, too, but not
just
the absence of consciousness, the absence of the capacity for consciousness.” The darkness is close and disorienting and Manni isn't sure which way up he is—nothing seems to work. Even Pamela's voice is a directionless ambiance, coming from all around him.

“Simple old-fashioned death, the kind that predated the singularity, used to be the inevitable halting state for all life-forms. Fairy tales about afterlives notwithstanding.” A dry chuckle: “I used to try to believe a different one before breakfast every day, you know, just in case Pascal's
wager was right—exploring the phase-space of all possible resurrections, you know? But I think at this point we can agree that Dawkins was right. Human consciousness is vulnerable to certain types of transmissible memetic virus, and religions that promise life beyond death are a particularly pernicious example because they exploit our natural aversion to halting states.”

Manni tries to say,
I'm not dead,
but his throat doesn't seem to be working. And now that he thinks about it, he doesn't seem to be breathing, either.

“Now, consciousness. That's a fun thing, isn't it? Product of an arms race between predators and prey. If you watch a cat creeping up on a mouse, you'll be able to impute to the cat intentions that are most easily explained by the cat having a theory of mind concerning the mouse—an internal simulation of the mouse's likely behavior when it notices the predator. Which way to run, for example. And the cat will use its theory of mind to optimize its attack strategy. Meanwhile, prey species that are complex enough to have a theory of mind are at a defensive advantage if they can anticipate a predator's actions. Eventually this very mammalian arms race gave us a species of social ape that used its theory of mind to facilitate signaling—so the tribe could work collectively—and then reflexively, to simulate the individual's
own
inner states. Put the two things together, signaling and introspective simulation, and you've got human-level consciousness, with language thrown in as a bonus—signaling that transmits information about internal states, not just crude signals such as ‘predator here' or ‘food there.' ”

Get me out of this!
Manni feels panic biting into him with liquid-helium-lubricated teeth. “G-e-t—” For a miracle the words actually come out, although he can't quite tell how he's uttering them, his throat being quite as frozen as his innerspeech. Everything's off-lined, all systems down.

“So,” Pamela continues remorselessly, “we come to the posthuman. Not just our own neural wetware, mapped out to the subcellular level and executed in an emulation environment on a honking great big computer, like this: That's not posthuman, that's a travesty. I'm talking about beings who are fundamentally better consciousness engines than us merely human types, augmented or otherwise. They're not just better at cooperation—witness Economics 2.0 for a classic demonstration of that—but better at
simulation
. A posthuman can build an internal
model of a human-level intelligence that is, well, as cognitively strong as the original. You or I may think we know what makes other people tick, but we're quite often wrong, whereas real posthumans can actually simulate us, inner states and all, and get it right. And this is especially true of a posthuman that's been given full access to our memory prostheses for a period of years, back before we realized they were going to transcend on us. Isn't that the case, Manni?”

Manni would be screaming at her right now, if he had a mouth—but instead the panic is giving way to an enormous sense of
déjà vu
. There's something
about
Pamela, something ominous that he knows . . . he's met her before, he's sure of it. And while most of his systems are off-line, one of them is very much active. There's a personality ghost flagging its intention of merging back in with him, and the memory delta it carries is enormous, years and years of divergent experiences to absorb. He shoves it away with a titanic effort—it's a very insistent ghost—and concentrates on imagining the feel of lips moving on teeth, a sly tongue obstructing his epiglottis, words forming in his throat—“m-e . . .”

“We should have known better than to keep upgrading the cat, Manni. It knows us too well. I may have died in the flesh, but Aineko
remembered
me, as hideously accurately as the Vile Offspring remembered the random resimulated. And you can run away—like this, this second childhood—but you can't hide. Your cat wants you. And there's more.” Her voice sends chills up and down his spine, for without him giving it permission the ghost has begun to merge its stupendous load of memories with his neural map, and her voice is freighted with erotic/repulsive significance, the result of conditioning feedback he subjected himself to a lifetime—lifetimes?—ago. “He's been
playing
with us, Manni, possibly from before we realized he was conscious.”

“Out
—
”
Manfred stops. He can see again, and move, and feel his mouth. He's
himself
again, physically back as he was in his late twenties all those decades ago when he'd lived a peripatetic life in presingularity Europe. He's sitting on the edge of a bed in a charmingly themed Amsterdam hotel with a recurrent motif of philosophers, wearing jeans and collarless shirt and a vest of pockets crammed with the detritus of a long-obsolete personal area network, his crazily clunky projection specs sitting on the bedside table. Pamela stands stiffly in front of the door, watching him. She's not the withered travesty he remembers seeing on
Saturn, a half-blind Fate leaning on the shoulder of his grandson. Nor is she the vengeful Fury of Paris, or the scheming fundamentalist devil of the Belt. Wearing a sharply tailored suit over a red-and-gold brocade corset, blond hair drawn back like fine wire in a tight chignon, she's the focused, driven force of nature he first fell in love with: repression, domination, his very own strict machine.

“We're dead,” she says, then gives voice to a tense half laugh. “We don't have to live through the bad times again if we don't want to.”

“What is this?” he asks, his mouth dry.

“It's the reproductive imperative.” She sniffs. “Come on, stand up. Come here.”

He stands up obediently, but makes no move toward her. “Whose imperative?”

“Not ours.” Her cheek twitches. “You find things out when you're dead. That fucking cat has got a lot of questions to answer.”

“You're telling me that—”

She shrugs. “Can you think of any other explanation for all this?” Then she steps forward and takes his hand. “Division and recombination. Partitioning of memetic replicators into different groups, then careful cross-fertilization. Aineko wasn't just breeding a better Macx when he arranged all those odd marriages and divorces and eigenparents and forked uploads—Aineko is trying to breed our
minds
.” Her fingers are slim and cool in his hand. He feels a momentary revulsion, as of the grave, and he shudders before he realizes it's his conditioning cutting in. Crudely implanted reflexes that shouldn't still be active after all this time. “Even our divorce. If—”

“Surely not.” Manny remembers that much already. “Aineko wasn't even conscious back then!”

Pamela raises one sharply sculpted eyebrow. “Are you sure?”

“You want an answer,” he says.

She breathes deeply, and he feels it on his cheek—it raises the fine hairs on the back of his neck. Then she nods stiffly. “I want to know how much of our history was scripted by the cat. Back when we thought we were upgrading his firmware, were we? Or was he letting us think that we were?” A sharp hiss of breath. “The divorce. Was that us? Or were we being manipulated?”

“Our memories, are they real? Did any of that stuff actually
happen
to us? Or—”

She's standing about twenty centimeters away from him, and Manfred realizes that he's acutely aware of her presence, of the smell of her skin, the heave of her bosom as she breathes, the dilation of her pupils. For an endless moment he stares into her eyes and sees his own reflection—her theory of his mind—staring back.
Communication
. Strict machine. She steps back a pace, spike heels clicking, and smiles ironically. “You've got a host body waiting for you, freshly fabbed: Seems Sirhan was talking to your archived ghost in the temple of history, and it decided to elect for reincarnation. Quite a day for huge coincidences, isn't it? Why don't you go merge with it—I'll meet you, then we can go and ask Aineko some hard questions.”

Manfred takes a deep breath and nods. “I suppose so . . .”

Little Manni—a clone off the family tree, which is actually a directed cyclic graph—doesn't understand what all the fuss is about, but he can tell when Momma, Rita, is upset. It's something to do with the pussycat-thing, that much he knows, but Momma doesn't want to tell him. “Go play with your friends, dear,” she says distractedly, not even bothering to spawn a ghost to watch over him.

Manni goes into his room and rummages around in toyspace for a bit, but there's nothing quite as interesting as the cat. The pussycat-thing smells of adventure, the illicit made explicit. Manni wonders where daddy's taken it. He tries to call big-Manni-ghost, but big-self isn't answering: He's probably sleeping or something. So after a distracted irritated fit of play—which leaves the toyspace in total disarray, Sendak-things cowering under a big bass drum—Manni gets bored. And because he's still basically a little kid, and not fully in control of his own metaprogramming, instead of adjusting his outlook so that he isn't bored anymore, he sneaks out through his bedroom gate (which big-Manni-ghost reprogrammed for him sometime ago so that it would forward to an underused public A-gate that he'd run a man-in-the-middle hack on, so he could use it as a proxy teleport server) then down to the underside of Red Plaza, where skinless things gibber and howl at their
tormentors, broken angels are crucified on the pillars that hold up the sky, and gangs of semiferal children act out their psychotic fantasies on mouthless android replicas of parents and authorities.

Lis is there, and Vipul and Kareen and Morgan. Lis has changed into a warbody, an ominous gray battlebot husk with protruding spikes and a belt of morningstars that whirl threateningly around her. “Manni! Play war?”

Morgan's got great crushing pincers instead of hands, and Manni is glad he came motie-style, his third arm a bony scythe from the elbow down. He nods excitedly. “Who's the enemy?”

“Them.” Lis precesses and points at a bunch of kids on the far side of a pile of artistically arranged rubble who are gathered around a gibbet, poking things that glow into the flinching flesh of whatever is incarcerated in the cast-iron cage. It's all make-believe, but the screams are convincing, all the same, and they take Manni back for an instant to the last time he died down here, the uneasy edit around a black hole of pain surrounding his disemboweling. “They've got Lucy, and they're torturing her. We've got to get her back.” Nobody really
dies
in these games, not permanently, but children can be very rough indeed, and the adults of New Japan have found that it's best to let them have at each other and rely on City to redact the damage later. Allowing them this outlet makes it easier to stop them doing really dangerous things that threaten the structural integrity of the biosphere.

“Fun.” Manni's eyes light up as Vipul yanks the arsenal doors open and starts handing out clubs, chibs, spikies, shuriken, and garrotes. “Let's go!”

About ten minutes of gouging, running, fighting, and screaming later, Manni is leaning against the back of a crucifixion pillar, panting for breath. It's been a good war for him so far, and his arm aches and itches from the stabbing, but he's got a bad feeling it's going to change. Lis went in hard and got her chains tangled up around the gibbet supports—they're roasting her over a fire now, her electronically boosted screams drowning out his own hoarse gasps. Blood drips down his arm—not his—spattering from the tip of his claw. He shakes with a crazed hunger for hurt, a cruel need to inflict pain. Something above his head makes a
scritch, scritch
sound, and he looks up. It's a crucified angel, wings ripped where they've thrust the spikes in between the joints
that support the great, thin low-gee flight membranes. It's still breathing, nobody's bothered disemboweling it yet, and it wouldn't be here unless it was
bad,
so—